Killer Listing Page 13

  Jonas Briggs flashed her a look and her heart did a major flop.

  “Sure,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  _____

  Darby was dressed and composed when Detective Briggs and Officer McGee pulled up to the bungalow in Briggs’ navy Volvo. He jogged across the yard, ducking under one of the enormous palms, his brow knit with concern.

  “Tell me again exactly what happened,” he commanded.

  “I took a shower, and walked into the guest room to get dressed. I picked out some clothes and was about to put them on, when I sensed something wasn’t right. I walked to the window and found the camera. I then came to the front door and saw a white Toyota Corolla—probably a ’98 or ’97—speed down the road. The driver was the same guy at the Dive’s bar.”

  “Clyde Hensley?”

  “That’s right. He was wearing the Dolphins baseball cap and glasses. I could see his profile clearly.”

  Officer McGee had remained so quiet that Darby hadn’t known she was there.

  “Did you get a look at the license plate?” she asked.

  “I did. Texas plates, F69 831. I’m not sure about the ‘3’. It could have been another ‘8’.”

  “Excellent.” Briggs made a note and nodded at McGee. She took the slip of paper and trotted back to the car, presumably to call them in.

  Jonas Briggs shook his head and pulled a small plastic bag out of his pocket. “Okay, let’s see what you found.”

  Darby showed him the tiny object. He opened the bag and she let it fall inside. “Your prints will be on it, but maybe we’ll get lucky and his will be, too.” He examined it carefully, peering through the plastic.

  “It’s a small camera, alright, used to transmit images to a remote location. Probably a laptop.” He sighed. “This scumbag has his fingers in more pies than I care to bake.” He scowled. “But this time we’ve got the jump on him. Do you think he saw you?”

  “Driving by, or naked?” She kept her tone light to show she was joking.

  “Driving by.”

  “No. He was looking down the road. And to answer your unspoken question, he didn’t see me naked, either.”

  Jonas Briggs did smile then, a fleeting one to show he got the joke. “What put you on alert?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said that you sensed something wasn’t right. What triggered that feeling?”

  Darby thought a moment, remembering the hint of a scent she’d noticed, a scent that was not her shampoo, not Helen’s fabric softener, and not the aromatic citrus fragrance of the trees in the backyard …

  “Body odor,” she said.

  “What? You mean you smelled him?” Detective Briggs was incredulous.

  “At first I just noticed something out of the ordinary, a scent I couldn’t place. I figured it came from the window. So I walked toward it, and saw the camera.”

  “Huh,” said Briggs, shaking his head in wonder. “That’s a new one on me.” He backed toward the car where Officer McGee was waiting. “Get anything on those plates?”

  Kelly McGee nodded. “Neither one was registered to Mr. Hensley. I’m going through the stolen vehicles right now.”

  Briggs nodded. “Good.” He turned back to Darby. “You’re going to have to explain this whole odor thing to me over dinner.”

  Darby laughed. “There’s not much to explain. I have a good sense of smell.”

  “We’re still on for tonight?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Thanks for coming over.”

  “All part of the job,” Jonas Briggs said, slamming the Volvo’s door. Darby gave a little wave as he pulled away, hoping the stricken look she’d seen on Officer McGee’s pretty face wasn’t directed at her.

  _____

  The Seeker dropped anchor thirty miles from the coast, and activity on the boat went into high gear. The two men—work friends from Jacksonville —would be the first ones in the water, followed by the couple and Tank. Jack had volunteered to stay with the boat while the others dove, then, when they resurfaced and chatted about the dive, he’d go down and check out the wreck.

  Or that was the plan.

  Jack wasn’t sure now if he’d be able to go through with it, although he’d played and replayed it so many times in his head. Descend to the Bay Ronto. Enter the great hulking mass of the ship. Disengage his oxygen line, tangling it in a piece of jutting steel for verisimilitude. Wait for oblivion.

  He knew the reality would be far from simple. Could he really make himself give up his regulator? Would he have the guts to deprive himself of air when every last cell would be screaming for it?

  At first his plan had been more complicated. He’d hoped to go on a deeper dive, where nitrogen narcosis could be his final nemesis. He’d known guys who’d died from “Rapture of the Deep”—what serious diver didn’t?—and the looks on their faces when their bodies were brought to the surface was never one of horror. Bliss, maybe, but not horror. But planning to get and die from the bends was proving way too complicated. Far easier to arrange to run out of oxygen, and if he did it right and made it look accidental, no one would be the wiser.

  Tank was talking to the divers before they did their backward rolls off the boat, instructing them to keep a hand on their masks and one across their buoyancy compensators. Jack busied himself with straightening the spare tanks. In a few minutes they’d descend, and he’d have a little time to himself.

  His thoughts drifted to his family. Even as a small boy, Jack had been chided by John Cameron, Senior, for choosing the easy way out, and he knew that this low opinion had been correct. He’d separated from Kyle rather than face the fact that she wasn’t happy. He’d let Belle Haven die a slow death (for the place was bankrupt before the fire had come and completely finished it off) rather than figure out how to run something more than a hamburger joint. He’d turned to booze and pills rather than doing the excruciating work of figuring out why he was such a loser. And now, he was choosing what his father would see as the ultimate easy way out.

  He could predict his mother’s grief when she heard about his “accident.” She’d be devastated, but she was a religious woman and might take comfort in her faith. Alexandra would be stunned, but she was strong, more like their father than she cared to admit. And John Cameron? Jack was sure he’d be relieved. The bad seed of the Cameron family, the one who was really only posing as a Cameron, would be out of the picture. His father might also guess that the whole thing was staged.

  The only person who deserved an explanation was Marco, and Jack had left him a scrawled note early that morning. Other than his longtime bartender, Tank was the only one he really worried about. No matter what he did, Tank was going to catch his share of shit. If the incident didn’t look like an accident, that might freak people out and hurt Tank’s business. Even if it was assumed to be an accident, Tank would still be reprimanded for letting him dive alone. Jack frowned. He wasn’t happy about hurting his friend, but that was life.

  _____

  Chellie Howe pushed back from the desk piled high with legislative bills and sighed. She’d tried to get through the bulk of them the night before, but somehow the mound of unread documents seemed to have multiplied by morning. She took a sip of her coffee and glanced at her Smartphone. Nearly eight—time to get dressed and leave before the peach-colored walls of the cramped condominium drove her nuts.

  The unit was located in one of Foster’s first developments, one of the few projects McFarlin Enterprises had undertaken in the capitol city. Chellie rented the condo from a management company, using the space whenever official business took her overnight to Tallahassee. She’d toyed with buying a house, had even looked at a few with an agent, before deciding to bide her time. It was crazy to buy something now, when the gubernatorial race was only a year away. She thought about the Governor’s Mansion, a lovely neo-classical home with Georgian columns and stately rooms, and the image of living and working in such a pretty environment made her smile. Not like this place, with its
cheap kitchen cabinets and worn vinyl floors.

  She rose and grabbed a yogurt and vitamin water out of the refrigerator. She would eat a little breakfast while tackling one more bill.

  The sound of a key in the lock made her freeze.

  “Foster?” She wasn’t expecting him, but that was the way their marriage worked now.

  The door opened and he entered, balancing a briefcase and a brown paper bag. His skin was the color of cocoa against his white shirt.

  “Hey.” He looked almost as if he was going to kiss her good morning, and then thought the better of it. He plunked the bag on the kitchen counter. “Muffins and coffee. I figured you were hard at work.”

  She felt an emotion akin to hope flutter in her chest. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Mindy.” He smoothed the front of his sport coat and pulled two coffees from the bag. The scent of warm baked goods filled the room. She knew him well enough to know he’d brought bran muffins.

  Foster was wearing a tie she had bought him in Paris: gray silk with a very faint pink stripe. It was one of the few purchases she’d made on the posh Champs-Elysees, and it had cost a small fortune. She walked toward him and took a coffee.

  “You look dashing. What’s the occasion?”

  He frowned and she regretted her question. “A hearing on Bay Isles.” He shook his head. “A bunch of the development’s buyers have banded together and formed a coalition. They’ve got a list of demands and deadlines they want us to meet.”

  Chellie knew more than she would ever let on about the lawsuit. The buyers were protesting McFarlin Enterprises’ closing dates, saying the project—which lacked nearly all of the promised amenities—was not substantially completed. “What do you expect will happen?”

  His expression darkened. “Hopefully we can reach some sort of settlement.” He ripped the cover off his cup of coffee and took a gulp. “I’m not going to lie to you, Chellie. Lawsuits like this are sinking McFarlin Enterprises. One more unexpected expense and I could be through.”

  She swallowed. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

  He glowered at her. “It is. Not for you—you’ll stay squeaky clean. But me and the company …” His voice trailed off.

  She thought of all those expensive dinners he’d shared with Kyle Cameron and bit her tongue. “The economy will rebound and all this will be a bad memory.” She put her hand on his arm, feeling the hard muscle beneath the sport coat.

  “Yeah, right.” He gave a glance at his watch. “I’ve got to go. Maybe I’ll see you back in Sarasota, tomorrow.”

  “What about tonight?” She hated the shrill way her voice sounded.

  “I have an engagement in Miami, and I’ll just stay over there.” He touched her cheek; let his fingers travel down to the nape of her neck. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

  She nodded and watched him go, hating him and loving him at the same time.

  _____

  Peter Janssen arrived at Helen Near’s office about ten minutes after Darby, his jovial smile warm. “Darby, how nice to see you again,” he said, extending a hand. “Helen, are you filling her up with some vintage Jane Farr stories?”

  Helen smiled. “Oh, there are only so many of those I can tell before they all start sounding the same.” She motioned for him to have a seat. “I’m glad you came over, Peter. I really want to get to the bottom of this St. Andrew’s Isle situation.”

  Peter Janssen nodded. “As do I,” he said, taking a folder from a well-worn briefcase. “I know Marty’s spoken to you, but my version of the story may be slightly different.” He smiled apologetically. “I admire Marty Glickman, and he runs a damn good company, but our values are slightly different.”

  Darby glanced at Helen. She hadn’t yet mentioned the incident at the bungalow, nor the arrival of Detective Briggs and Officer McGee. There hadn’t been time, and besides, Helen had enough on her plate without hearing someone had planted a camera in her guestroom.

  “Go on,” Helen said to Peter. “I’d like to hear what you have to say.”

  Janssen nodded and cleared his throat. “Two years ago, I was asked to visit St. Andrew’s Isle. I met with Tag Gunnerson and his assistant, a man named Bernie Shultz.” The women nodded. “After discussing with them what I felt the property was worth, I left and followed up a week or so later. Mr. Shultz thanked me but said Tag had changed his mind about selling. I put the file in a cabinet and there it stayed, until two months ago.”

  “At that time Kyle came to me and said she wanted to talk. She seemed uncomfortable and I suggested that we have lunch that very afternoon. We did, and it wasn’t long before she got straight to the point.”

  “She told me she’d met Tag Gunnerson at some charity event. He said that he wanted to sell his island property, and he asked Kyle to list it.” Peter Janssen crinkled his brow as he spoke, trying to remember the details of the conversation. “I told Kyle I had spoken to Tag’s assistant a year ago, but that no commitment had been made. I congratulated her on what would undoubtedly be a fabulous listing.”

  “Kyle put down her fork and tossed her napkin onto the table. She said it wasn’t fair that they’d consulted with me but weren’t going to use my services. I reminded her that I was a big boy and that real estate sometimes worked that way, but she didn’t seem to be listening. She insisted on writing up a referral agreement, said it was the only way she’d be able to take the listing in good conscience.”

  “I wasn’t sure what to say. I told her a referral fee was unnecessary, that I appreciated her concern but that I could handle it. She seemed to believe me, and we enjoyed the rest of our lunch, chatting about the market, new happenings in the city, and the like. When we got back to the office, I left my file on her desk so she could see the comparables I’d used. Later that day, there was a copy of a referral agreement in my box.”

  He paused. “That’s the kind of girl Kyle Cameron was.” The words sounded choked, and Darby felt for the man. He made an effort to control his emotions and continued, lifting the folder in his hands. “But things have changed. It’s ludicrous for Marty to think you owe me anything now. Kyle was leaving Barnaby’s. She wasn’t going to finalize this listing until she was part of your company.” He sighed. “She’d seemed happy at Barnaby’s, but who really knows for sure? Marty can be tough to work for, and they had definitely had some misunderstandings over the years.”

  Darby’s interest was piqued. “Such as?”

  “The usual squabbles over commissions. Kyle was busting her butt on the McFarlin properties, and she didn’t want to give Marty half of what she earned. She was a star for the company, and I think she wanted to be treated like a star. Instead, Marty was on her case, pushing her to travel further down the coast and pick up clients in Naples, Venice, and Verona. That girl was already going 24/7. I don’t know how she could have given him any more.”

  “Will you keep working for Marty?” Helen asked.

  “If that’s a job offer, I thank you but I have to decline,” he said. “I’ll stay at Barnaby’s until the bitter end.”

  “Does Marty treat you better than he did Kyle?” asked Darby.

  “No,” he said with a sad grin. “But I don’t have the guts to make a change.” He rose. “I appreciate your time, Helen, and it’s nice to see you again.” He turned to Darby. “Good bye and good luck.”

  Helen saw Peter to the office door. When he had left, she turned to face her friend.

  “What an interesting meeting. His story and Marty’s are so different.”

  Darby nodded. “Peter seems to grasp that—Kyle’s leaving the agency, and her death, negates any kind of referral agreement, while Marty is pretty insistent that you owe it.”

  Helen sighed. “I’m going to speak to the state commission, see what they say. Whatever I do, I don’t want Marty Glickman on my case.”

  “Just how much money are we talking, anyway?”

  “Well, just say the estate sells for forty million dollars, that’s a
fifty thousand dollar referral fee. That’s not chump change.” She pushed the chairs back where they belonged and gave Darby a long look. “This is my take on it. Giving it to Peter is one thing, but I’ll be damned if I’m handing anything over to Marty Glickman if I don’t have to.” She looked at her watch. “I’m off to St. Andrew’s Isle and bag that listing. What about you?”

  “Off to take my exam.”

  “Shoot! That’s right. Well good luck, girl. I just know you’re going to ace it. How about I call you when I finish and we grab a grouper sandwich?”

  “Super. Just call and I’ll meet you at the Dive.”

  _____

  Jack entered the water alone, leaving the other divers chatting and eating orange slices on board the Seeker. “Have a good dive,” Tank said, looking into his friend’s eyes with what seemed like concern.

  “Always do,” answered Jack.

  Now, as he let the air out of his buoyancy compensator and descended slowly to the bottom, he thought again about his plan. Swim to the wreck, find a jagged piece of metal, entangle his breathing apparatus in the metal, and drown. It sounded so easy.

  Once at the bottom, Jack adjusted his buoyancy so that he hovered just above the sand. He loved this feeling—the point where he was neither sinking nor rising. It was what being in outer space must be like, he thought, as he watched a huge amberjack swim slowly by. Beautiful spiny oysters littered the bottom, and Jack could not help but be impressed by their symmetry.

  The gray hulk of the four-hundred-foot-long freighter loomed through the green water in front of him. Now laying upside down, her back broken in half, the once mighty Bay Ronto had been transporting wheat bound for Marseilles when she foundered in a hurricane in 1919. Jack remembered hearing that the entire crew managed to squeeze into two lifeboats before the freighter went down. Collecting rainwater and eating raw fish, the men on the lifeboats had somehow survived.

  As wrecks went, the Bay Ronto was not particularly exciting. There was no chance of finding china, or a ship’s bell, or any artifacts at all for that matter. But it was a wreck, and beginners and more experienced divers alike appreciated the thrill that swimming through its sunken passageways afforded. It was the chance to imagine you’d discovered the Andrea Doria or the Titanic.